"The Earl of Loughton!" exclaimed both ladies, in a breath.
"Miss Collumpton! Miss Browne!" gasped Clement, as he gripped Slingsby by the arm. "You are mistaken. This is Miss Collumpton, and this"--taking Cecilia by the hand--"is Miss Browne, whom, now that you have told her something which I did not intend her to know for a long time to come, I beg to introduce to you as my promised wife."
In speechless bewilderment Slingsby stared from one to the other. Twice he strove to speak, but words failed him. Cecilia and Mora, too, were like people lost in a maze, while on Clement's face there was a look of fatuity such as no one had ever seen there before.
And so the curtain falls, and our little tragi-comedy comes to an end.
Clement and Cecilia were married the following spring, when the woodland ways were all aglow with bursting buds and delicate blooms. After the wedding they set out for Italy, which Clement had long been desirous of visiting for artistic purposes. His brush and palette are still as dear to him as ever they were, and Cecilia does not wish it otherwise. He still paints under his old name of Clement Fildew, and in the Republic of Art he is known by no other.
The Dowager Countess of Loughton shut her doors inexorably against the new earl and his wife. She vowed that she would never see Cecilia again, and she kept her word. She died in the winter following her niece's marriage, and bequeathed all she was possessed of to Mr. Boscombe. She died in ignorance of Slingsby's marriage, otherwise she would probably have altered her will at the last moment.
Slingsby lives the life of a quiet country gentleman, and in it he finds his happiness. He is lord-lieutenant of his county, but beyond that he has no ambition, political or otherwise. He has a large family and a large estate. He is a pattern husband, an excellent father, and the best angler within twenty miles of his house. He has also some capital shooting, which his friends do not fail to appreciate.
Miss Browne succeeded in the ambition of her life: slow, steady patience such as hers generally does succeed in the long run. A rich iron-master saw her, approved of her, proposed, and was accepted. Mora lives at a splendid place in Wales, and is happy in her cold, stately, unsympathetic way. It is to be hoped that her husband, who is said by some people to have married her for love, is equally satisfied.
Tony Macer now writes A.R.A. after his name, and the dignity will lose nothing at his hands. He is still a bachelor, and likely to remain one. His house in St. John's Wood is presided over by a lame sister, and has a crowd of poor relations perpetually hovering round it but Tony is never so happy as when doing a kindness to some one. He and "Clement Fildew" are as great chums as ever they were, and smoke many a "short gun" together over their talk of days gone by, and the pictures they hope to paint in days to come. Mr. Macer's portrait of Lady Loughton in last year's Academy was one of the hits of the season.